


storge

by xathira



Category: Over the Garden Wall (Cartoon & Comics)
Genre: Other, Valentine's Day Fluff, Wirt is a Martha Stewart in the making, brother bonding, just some familial affection here, stepfather-stepson bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:28:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22731787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xathira/pseuds/xathira
Summary: Storge:n.('store-gae') Natural or instinctual affection; familial love.-Wirt obsessively prepares for Valentine's Day.  Greg and his stepfather are there to help (?)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39





	storge

Three bowls of glossy royal icing sit on the kitchen table in three painstakingly mixed shades: lipstick red, princess pink, and wedding dress white. A few smaller bowls are arranged to the left, all containing an assortment of sprinkles and small, colorful candies. To the right, a fan of empty piping bags sit ready to be filled—and next to them wait some neatly ordered kitchen tools that can be used for smoothing icing or trimming ugly edges off the sugar cookies currently cooling on wire racks. Wirt took these heart-shaped beauties out of the oven fifteen minutes ago… but he's waiting a little longer before he begins decorating. It took two tries to perfect the consistency of the royal icing, and he'd been forced to whip up more cookie dough after Greg snuck into the fridge and ate half the log that Wirt had been chilling—so the nervous teen is taking his time. He used up the last of the flour and eggs in his baking frenzy. Valentine's Day is tomorrow. He literally can't afford to mess these up. 

"Okay. That's it. That's everything… I think."

Wirt approaches decorating with the same seriousness and dedication to detail as a veteran pâtissier. He consults the colored-pencil sketches he made earlier this week like an architect going over blueprints, critical of his ideas and worried about his skill… or rather, lack thereof. His mother always opts for thick store-bought frosting for Christmas sugar cookies, and although Wirt has done wonders with buttercream and M&M's on birthday cakes, he's leery of his ability to execute his romantic vision using supplies he's rarely worked with and a cookbook that seems to have been written for bakers who already know what they're doing. Should he flood the icing? Does he need a toothpick to spread any thin spots? When he's writing messages, should he hold the piping bag tip a _half inch_ from the surface—or a full inch? Oh, god, the candies are starting to seem like overkill…

The most Wirt has accomplished by the time Greg and the family frog waddle into the dining room is filling one piping bag with the lipstick red. He holds the tip shakily over the first cookie—a test cookie, no pressure, this one's just for practice—and startles when Greg calls his name, squeezing the bag too hard and spurting icing halfway across the table. 

"Wow," Greg guffaws appreciatively, hoisting himself and Jason Funderburker the Frog into a chair. For some reason they are wearing matching pajamas, even though the family hasn’t even had dinner yet. "That sounded like a whoopee cushion! Do it again, do it again!"

"NO—no, no frogs on the table! This is a STERILE work zone, Greg. Wh-why don't you go watch cartoons? I told you to leave me alone while I work on these… I need to concentrate…" Wirt breathes deeply through his nose. He blocks out the two pairs of eyes staring at him intently and recenters to tip of the piping bag over the heart's center. Slowly, now… he has to let the icing flow to just the edge, smooth and even, and once that's set he can pipe the white lace design—

"Are you gonna put icing on that one?"

One knee-jerk squeeze of the piping bag and the cookie is a bloody crime scene, complete with a gory spatter that arcs toward the little boy and his best amphibian friend. Wirt points the weapon accusingly at his brother. "GREG."

"Ohh… you did… were you supposed to put that much? Is that what you meant by 'flooding'? That's weird. But fun! Kinda looks like you murdered that cookie, _ree-ree-ree_ —"

Wirt swipes the rubber spatula from Greg’s stabby hand and slaps it on the table. From Greg’s lap, Jason Funderburker makes a low bullfrog growl that Wirt would swear is directed at _him._

“Don’t you sass me,” Wirt orders their frog (he is always _their_ frog, even if Jason Funderburker spends more time looking after Greg like a protective bull _dog_ ). “It’s really important to me that I get these right, you guys… I want to give Sara something _special_ for Valentine’s Day and if I mess these up then it’s all over. I’m _doomed_ —a failed fool letting down his paramour like a dying wind that cannot support the wings of her fondest hopes—”

“Wow, I didn’t know Sara liked cookies so much…” Greg puts down the bowl of candy hearts he’d been picking through while Wirt droned on with a decisive clatter. “I thought you were gonna make her another lovey-dovey tape?”

“I already did.” Wirt says this as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He absently scoots the ruined crime-scene cookie toward his younger sibling and their amphibian companion so he can start working on a fresh canvas. It’s a good thing he made three dozen of these things; since Greg shows no inclination whatsoever of leaving him alone, Wirt is bound to screw up at least half of them before he can call it a night. “And it wasn’t ‘lovey-dovey’... it’s very romantic and mature, not that I’d expect _you_ to understand. Probably my best work yet.”

“Oh, _right._ I thought I heard you recording it the other night—”

“ _Greg!_ ”

“—and I think she’ll really like the poem about the garden. Where you talk about all the vines and the blooming and whatnot? And pollen?”

Wirt’s face flushes as red as the icing he’s trying to wipe off the table before their mom walks in and notices the mess. He stacks four more cookies on top of the mistake he gave to Greg and Jason, and fixes them both with a haunted, desperate stare. “Don’t you ever, _ever_ tell Mom and your dad about that poem. Do you understand me, Greg? Not even under penalty of death will you mention that poem.” He scoots one of the candy bowls closer to them in case his attempt at bribery is not clear enough. “Otherwise I will _literally_ die.”

Greg and Jason Funder-traitor exchange a sly glance that makes Wirt’s stomach liquify like his royal icing. “It’d probably be harder to talk if our mouths were full of _marshmallows…_ ”

Sighing through his teeth, Wirt throws up his hands, stomps into the kitchen, and swipes a bag of marshmallows off the top of the fridge—where they’d been hidden explicitly to stop Greg from demolishing them all in one sitting. The kid and the frog wear eerily identical expressions of euphoria when Wirt upends the bag unceremoniously into a new bowl along with their freebie cookies and proffered Valentine’s Day candy. “I hope you get diabetes before you’re eight years old,” Wirt mutters darkly. “It’d serve you right, for blackmailing me.”

“Blackmailing? What’s blackmailing? We don’t know nothin’ ‘bout no blackmailing—do we, Señor Sassylegs?”

The sounds of greedily smacking lips and appreciative _mmms_ are easy enough for Wirt to tune out… eventually. Once upon a time, any noise that Greg made to disturb his focus had Wirt flinching as if stuck with a needle; he constantly felt a single “Hey, Wirt!” from snapping at the abrasive intrusion scraping away at his personal space and limited patience, his threshold for irritation shorter than a mangy dog’s. He would’ve been frustrated to the point of tears by Greg’s encroachment on his concentration last year.

But it’s this year, and things are different between them. Wirt is better. He’s still occasionally exasperated by the sugar-high chatterbox of unlimited energy bouncing across the table from him… but that chatterbox is his brother, and it’s not so bad having company while he works.

So long as Greg takes those poetic stanzas with him to the grave.

Wirt finishes six cookies before Greg unleashes a belch that would make a trucker blush. The fastidious teenager peers dryly up from the wedding-dress-white heart he’s putting the final touches on (polkadots of princess-pink, each with a heart-shaped sprinkle surgically positioned in their centers) and clears his throat to get Greg’s attention. Oddly enough, the normally hyper first-grader has deflated in his seat with Jason Funderburker snoozing peacefully on his lap. 

“Ho-hum…” Greg moons up at the lamp that hangs over the dining room table; it’s got one of those decorative stained-glass lamp shades and they’ve argued ad nauseum over whether the flowers blooming across its surface are water lilies or daisies (“If they’re water lilies, then where’re the LILY PADS _Wirt?_ ”) A half-hearted raspberry bubbles from his stuck-out tongue. “I got tired alluva sudden.”

“You’re crashing, Greg. From all the sugar you ate.” Wirt cautiously moves the polkadot heart to wait by the bevy of completed confections and picks out another cookie from the rack. He checks the bottom for any too-brown spots, frowns, and chooses a different contender with a better bake. Sara is one of the best things to ever happen to him and Wirt will sooner cut off his own sinful hands that gift her with an overly-crispy brick not fit for a dog biscuit. 

“ _Nyyyyyeeeeerrrrow_ … boom.” The last marshmallow, the one that had somehow survived the carnage that took its brethren, is thrown back into the bowl by a less-than-enthusiastic Greg. Now Wirt is concerned. He momentarily abandons his project to shuffle over to his sibling and feel his forehead with the back of his hand, the corners of his mouth pulling downward.

“Does your stomach hurt? Serves you right for spoiling your appetite… you probably definitely have salmonella from that raw cookie dough…” He lightly taps the top of Greg’s head with his knuckles. Instead of yowling out an exaggerated moan of agony which would have them both chuckling, Greg hums and hunches a bit lower in his seat. Wirt instantly dithers. “Oh my gosh—are you actually sick? I shouldn’t have given you those marshmallows—I knew that was a bad idea—I’ll make you some weak tea, I know you hate it but it’s good for you, okay, chamomile and ginger are supposed to—” 

“Actually… could you help me with my Valentines Box?” Greg plops an empty Kleenex box in front of him, almost shoving his leftover snacks onto the floor. Wirt double-takes. All he’d seen under the table was Jason Fundersnoozer snoring on Greg’s knees… where had Greg been hiding _this_ thing? “I was supposed to get it done in class so people can leave me Valentine’s mail tomorrow, but I don’t have inspiration… Mrs. Green said frogs weren’t very ‘seasonal’ and I’m not allowed to draw any explosions sooo...”

“Frogs and explosions aren’t exactly appropriate for Valentine’s Day.” On the outside, Wirt is smiling wryly; inwardly, he is cursing this _Philistine_ Mrs. Green for daring to crush his brother’s creativity by putting constraints on Greg’s unique artistic self-expression. Van Gogh’s visions weren’t encouraged, either—and look how the world lauded him now! “What if you asked Mom if she had any old magazines? I could help you cut out some pictures and glue them on there, make a collage of some kind.”

“Don’t you have to decorate the rest of those cookies for Sarah?” Greg wears his most enormous, most disarming Puppydog Eyes and turns in his seat just enough to fix Wirt with their full power. On his lap, Jason Funderburker gurgles and shifts positions to be more comfortable. 

Wirt misses the days when he’d been immune to the Puppydog Eyes. “Er… well… I could take a short break. A _short_ one. I’ll cut the pictures for you, and you glue them on. Then you’ve got to leave me be while I pack up all of Sara’s gifts for tomorrow, okay?”

A wide grin sparkles from Greg’s beaming face. He jiggles in his chair as if his depressed state had been an act (wait—had that been an act?!) and picks their bullfrog up so he can jump down without dumping Jason to the floor. “Thanks, Brother O’ Mine! I’m gonna have the coolest Valentine’s Box in the whole class—eat your _heart out,_ Timothy Hanawalt! Your Valentine’s Day heart, that is! And your real one too!” His be-socked feet thump rapidly out of the room in his race to find Mom.

No sooner has Greg disappeared than Wirt’s stepfather ducks bashfully in, decked in the awkwardly friendly expression that grits Wirt’s teeth to this very day. Their relationship has also improved since Wirt woke up in the hospital… but it’s a molasses-slow improvement, rife with growing pangs. 

“Wirt,” says his stepfather by way of greeting. “How’s it going?”

Wirt utters a non-committal noise in the back of his throat and pretends to be distracted by his remaining bare-faced cookies. “Fine. It’s going fine. Have you…” He pitches his voice lower, secretive, not quite raising his eyes to meet Greg’s father’s. “Did you get Mom a present?” 

Normally he wouldn’t give a darn what this man has or has not planned. If _he_ bombs Valentine’s Day, that’s on him—not Wirt. But then his stepfather tugs at his collar and his smile tips self-consciously. “I did. Something she’ll really like. But, ah… I haven’t found a card yet. No flowers, either. Would you and Greg want to help me pick something out while your mother starts dinner?” 

It’s a blatantly obvious endeavor to spend time with Wirt under the guise of needing help. His stepfather has been doing this kind of stuff since he moved in, and his resilience under Wirt’s unending barrage of bitter refusal only forced Wirt to despise him more.

“I mean… I do want to get a few more of these out of the way…” Wirt’s excuse sounds thin and ungenuine even to his own ears. 

“That’s fine, I understand.” Greg’s father nods his head and begins backing out, most likely to hunt Greg down. “I’ll see you when I get back—”

“Wait.”

The single word is electrified with sudden panic. If he were a worse man, Wirt’s stepfather might sneer at him; however, he’s _not_ a bad man despite Wirt’s inherent dislike of him—and he sighs with sage understanding and empathy that can only come from someone experiencing the same pre-holiday panic. “You forgot to get a card, too, didn’t you.”

♥ –––––––––– ♥

Wirt rides in the front seat of the car with tight-lipped, white-knuckled dread. At the wheel, his stepfather is hardly more relaxed. Only Greg, in the back and singing along to the radio at maximum volume with ad-libbed lyrics, is enjoying himself.

The trio walks into the nearest grocery store. Wirt wonders if he will ever be jaded enough to not have a mental breakdown when perusing bouquets for his sweetheart; judging by his stepfather’s deceptive confidence while holding up a gorgeous bundle of merlot-colored roses, he figures there’s hope for him yet. 

“These ones, because Sara likes yellow!” Greg runs back and forth along the misted wall of flowers, yanking Wirt along with him by the jacket. He has not changed out of his pajamas, which is ironic, because Wirt is the one for whom exhaustion is prowling around the corner. In his commotion, he practically takes Wirt’s eye out with a bouquet of yellow roses. “Aren’t these pretty?”

“Yeah, they’re nice, but I can’t give Sara _yellow_ roses.” Greg’s father leans in, question marks all over his face. Greg looks the same way and Wirt smacks his own forehead. He should have known these two would be clueless. “Yellow means ‘friendship,’ or ‘forgiveness.’ You want me to give my _girlfriend_ those for Valentine’s Day?”

"You're right, bad call," Greg relents. 

"You're so wise," Greg's father adds. Wirt glares until he realizes that the man is teasing him, wanting to allay some of his worries, and his glare softens into something that isn't exactly a smile but it's not hostile, either. "Have you thought about getting Sara some carnations?"

"...Get out of my head." He’d heard Sara mention her preference of carnations over roses once—it was why he’d bought her a red carnation pin from an antique shop. Roses are traditional for Valentine’s Day, but Sara is anything but traditional. She’d… she’d like those. Wirt pictures her accepting some and pressing her face into the velvet softness of petals; his heart skips as his hand closes around a bright scarlet bouquet of carnations and baby’s breath that Greg finds for him (this kid has a knack, there’s no denying it) and then Wirt’s stepfather announces that they should make their way over to the cards.

“I’m going to find your mother something romantic. Greg, help your brother choose Sara’s card.” Greg’s father claps them both on the back and salutes them with mock seriousness. The more… _adult-oriented_ options are set off to one end of the aisle, leaving Wirt and Greg to scan this store’s excuse for heartfelt sentiment by themselves.

Greg rests his hands on his hips as if he’s undertaking a matter of national security. “We got the perfect cookies and the perfect flowers, now for the perfect card. Does Sara like glitter?”

Wirt would like to answer, but all of a sudden he’s very busy having an existential crisis. The void calls to him from the rows upon rows upon _rows_ of colorful, commercialized Valentine’s well-wishes. Capitalism is the soul-sucking source of all evil in this world. Everyone dies, and this life is merely a detour of anguish toward the long bank of the River Styx... a detour filled with frilly lace-edged heart motifs and cheap wine and soulless greeting cards—

“Hey, Wirt, how about this one? It was MADE for Sara!”

Greg distracts Wirt from his crushing ennui by waving a card with a childish picture of a bumblebee on the front. The insect appears deliriously happy and is poised to kiss a blooming rose wearing an equally harrowing expression of joy. Across the top, predictably, are the words “BEE MINE” written in bubble letters. Wirt feels his stomach shrivel up into a raisin the same time his left eyelid twitches. Greg, failing to notice his older brother’s openly disgusted reaction, opens the card to showcase yet another tooth decay-inducing message: “for my favorite HONEY.”

“Ha ha,” the little boy chuckles, “bee puns.”

Wirt makes a sound like his soul is leaving his body. “Not that one, Greg. Anything but that.”

“But this card is TOTALLY Sara’s card! It has a bee on it! For Sara-the- _Bee._ It’s genius.”

But Wirt has already swiped the offensive card out of Greg’s fingers (“Hey, Wirt, no stealing!”) and stuffed it behind another selection of mawkish drek: cartoon dogs wearing sunglasses and barking “RAISE THE ‘WOOF,’ VALENTINE.”

“It can’t be a stupid one,” Wirt complains, fingers on one hand carding through his messy hair while the others squeeze the carnation arrangement tighter. “I want—I want her to trust that I take our relationship _seriously._ I’ve gone a few months now without messing it up, but there’s so much _pressure,_ and holy hot potato all of these cards _suck_ —I’m sorry for my language, Greg, but they do. Honestly: ‘you make my heart SAUR’? Garbage.” He flips around a card with a t-rex on the front so that no other last-minute shoppers will be accosted by its gaudiness. 

“You think the ones I pick out are too silly?” Greg frowns at a pizza slice with heart-shaped pepperoni (“you got a PIZZA my heart, Valentine!”) He fidgets in place, clearly trying his best to crush his playful elementary-schooler urges. “Hold on, I’ll uncover a winner—”

“It’s fine, Greg.” Wirt walks away, _willing_ something to jump out at him. He ignores his brother randomly snatching the cards he can reach down for inspection (“What about this one? Or this one? _This_ one?”) and exhales in relief upon discovering a card that is just as tasteful, understated, and elegant as he could ever hope to come across in a grocery store. The satin snow-white cardstock is embossed with “Happy Valentine’s Day” in silvery scrolling font; the inside is blessedly blank, inviting Wirt to spill whatever love note his heart desires. 

Greg seems strangely disappointed. He recovers as soon as his father sidles by again, however, curious about what card their mother is destined to receive. Unfortunately, Wirt’s stepfather declines taking the card out of its envelope. “It’s, uh, not G-rated,” the man chuckles to Greg’s confusion and Wirt’s dry-heaving revulsion.

♥ –––––––––– ♥

What feels like a lifetime actually only takes about thirty minutes. The three men of the house pay for their wares (Greg is permitted to bring home one bag of Valentine’s candy to share with his class) and then drive home; Greg distracts Mom with a spirited interpretive dance while Wirt and Greg’s father hurry to sequester their holiday surprises in their rooms.

Heading back to the dining room for dinner, Wirt’s stepfather shoots him a wink. “Good job on your gifts. I bet Sara will love those cookies, and your flowers.”

“Uh… g-good job to you, too.” Huh. Wirt doesn’t have the overbearing desire to follow that compliment with a snarky one-liner. 

After dinner, Wirt wings the design on two more cookies and works until bedtime with Greg to layer a collage masterpiece over the little boy’s Valentines Box. Wirt expects his younger sibling to be over the moon to have his project drying on his bedside table next to Jason Funderburker’s tank… but Greg is actually rather pensive. It takes Wirt sitting down next to him on his bed and flicking his forehead to snap Greg out of his thoughts. 

“Something wrong, Greg? You’ve been a little… _off_ all evening. Is your stomach still kinda unsettled? Helping me eat those leftover hearts and the icing was not my brightest idea, I humbly admit.” 

“Well…” Greg’s expression dims, and for Wirt that feels like watching somebody crush flowers under their heel. Brotherly concern overrides his nervousness, his terror for tomorrow, and he bumps Greg carefully with elbow to let the little boy know that he has Wirt’s undivided attention. With a deep breath, Greg starts again. “Susie Wheeler’s big sister Diana started dating this boy and they’re both seniors in high school and I know you’re just a sophomore but it’s the same thing—”

“Whoa, Greg, slow down. What’s the same thing? Being a sophomore and… a senior…? Am I supposed to know who Diana Wheeler is?”

Greg gives him a funny look like _duh, of course,_ since Greg knows the names of everyone in the first grade and also all the names of his classmates’ siblings. But at Wirt’s sheepish expression the kid sighs and starts again. “Susie Wheeler’s big sister Diana started dating, and now Susie and Diana don’t hang out anymore because Diana is too busy with her _boyyyyfrieeeeend._ ” The word is strung out with so much derision Wirt knows that Greg must be imitating Susie. A short chuckle escapes the older boy and he has to awkwardly clear his throat when Greg won’t peek up from his own knees. “I didn’t do a very good job helping you pick out flowers or a card, huh.”

“What are you talking about? You’re the one that handed me the carnations I’m giving Sara tomorrow.” Wirt works hard to keep up with his brother’s train of thought. He throws an arm around Greg’s shoulders and jostles him gently, pulling him closer to his side.

“But first I picked the wrong flowers, the yellow ones, and all my cards were too goofy…” A sniffle. Wirt’s spine snaps rigid. Greg doesn’t _sniffle._ Suspecting a ruse, Wirt narrows his eyes—except this is no act, because if it were fake Greg wouldn’t be trying to hide his face or wipe the tears from his cheeks before they fall too far. “Are you gonna stop hanging out with me, too?”

“No. Of course not.” The words are out, spoken softly and strong with conviction, and Wirt doesn’t have to think about them whatsoever. “I’m always going to have time for you. You’re my brother, right? I might not always be available right when you want me, but you just have to be patient. I’m not gonna pull a Diana Wheeler on you.”

“Good.” Greg rubs at his nose. “I’m startin’ to like hanging out with you.”

From his tank, Jason Funderburker croaks in agreement. 

Wirt ruffles Greg’s hair and chases that gesture of affection with a pillow to Greg’s face. While Greg laughs and aims the same pillow at Wirt’s head, the elder sibling dashes to the door. “Good night, Greg,” says Wirt, ducking. “I’m… I’m _hoppy_ that you’re my brother. I’ll t-toad-ally be your Valentine.”

“Terrible!” Greg cackles. “What does that even mean!”

“It means I love you, Candypants. Sleep tight.”

Wirt writes his personalized message to Sara in the card he bought before turning out his light for the night, about twenty minutes after Greg and his parents have gone to bed themselves. He mulls over lines of love he didn’t think to say in the tape that sits atop the box of cookies waiting on the kitchen table for tomorrow. Finally, he has to laugh, because Greg was right. There _is_ a phrase that was made for Sara.

_Dear Sara - Bee mine.  
Love, Wirt._

**Author's Note:**

> Probably should have tried to write something romantic for Valentine's Day, but familial and platonic love need more... well, love. So you get terrible Valentine puns instead of poetic-bee I'm sorryyyy
> 
> I don't think it's too much of a stretch to imagine Wirt being good at baking - or at least very particular about it, especially when it comes to culinary decoration. He's an artsy soft boy. And Greg cannot keep himself away from sugar for more than thirty seconds.


End file.
